


At Ten Paces

by AAluminium



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Burr - Freeform, Fiction, Gen, Hamilton - Freeform, History, Shooting, duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13471704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AAluminium/pseuds/AAluminium
Summary: Hamilton, as usual, didn’t miss the opportunity to sneer and throw a waspish remark at me. As expected, he wasn’t serious at all, this duel meant merely nothing to him: he didn’t respect this historical moment – just like he didn’t respect me. He made fun of everything he saw – made fun of the situation, made fun of me, that eccentric that would certainly be dished on by newspapers!.. Unbearable, ridiculous! This man turns everything into a farce: once he takes the floor, any session morphs into a mess!





	At Ten Paces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jean-William](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jean-William).



“So, Burr, have the finger on the trigger?” 

Hamilton, as usual, didn’t miss the opportunity to sneer and throw a waspish remark at me. As expected, he wasn’t serious at all, this duel meant merely nothing to him: he didn’t respect this historical moment – just like he didn’t respect _me_. He made fun of everything he saw – made fun of the situation, made fun of me, that eccentric that would certainly be dished on by newspapers!.. Unbearable, ridiculous! This man turns everything into a farce: once he takes the floor, any session morphs into a mess! 

“Almost pulling it.” 

Hamilton grinned arrogantly – with the schadenfreude so characteristic of him that drives me crazy. Oh, if only I could, I would’ve shot him back then, I would’ve planted a bullet into his sarcastic dirty mouth which is always full of snide remarks! He’s always vaunting of his “service in battle”, but in reality it seems like this filthy little toad lay low somewhere in the tent scribbling his useless plans and botching up senseless essays! Instead of being active in politics he always dilates upon, the only thing he’s doing is writing which is not going to help us on the economic arena. This Caribbean bastard, supercilious _parvenu_ God knows how ingratiated himself with Washington, managed to obtain his cushy job – and now he is not ashamed to use the fruits of his so called _providence!_ What are his achievements exactly? A couple of Federalist articles for the Constitution nobody cares about? This mediocre project of the National Bank which isn’t accepted even by excruciatingly indifferent Jefferson? What’s his cultural impact? What’s his contribute to our country’s development? His constant squabbles in Congress – at any meeting in general? His permanent braggadocio, idiotic ostentation, swelled up conceit? Showing off in front of the delegates and haughty behavior? Voting for the man unable to make a strategically important decision, voting for someone preferring to procrastinate and postpone? The fact that his vote gravely changed the situation during the election of 1800 rose himself in his own eyes and ascribed non-existent accomplishments to him. Hamilton, enough. You can apologize – here and now – and stop marring this beautiful day with your insipid jokes popping out of your carelessly concocted pamphlets. But no, you want to take revenge for your own disrespect – again, posing, giving a performance, trying to prove what a perfect shooter you are. You’ll have to take responsibility for your words, for your exceedingly long tongue, for your everlasting attacks and accusations – and your hubris. 

“Don’t hesitate, _sir_ ,” Hamilton drawled in a mocking manner, reluctantly preparing himself for the duel. 

He looked around slowly – slightly narrowed his eyes, he glanced at the boats and the oars; took a gander at me – and, _damn it,_ he obviously noticed I had soaked a bit!.. He muttered something about the fog – and the wonderful day that lay ahead; patted Pendleton on the shoulder, smiled… and started telling us about his plans for the evenings as if he expected to go home in one piece! As if there was not a gun loaded, there were not a second tensed; _me_ , the one capable to determine his fate, did not exist for him!.. He idly adjusted his sleeves as if preening before a date; grabbed the weapon and glanced at the boats again. Hamilton didn’t look nervous at all – on the contrary, he seemed either to be participating in another passionate dispute, or preparing himself for another blow to inflict on the Republicans, especially on Jefferson who had been elected to run afoul of me. 

“At ten paces?” he asked, adjusting a ginger strand at the temple. _Hell,_ is he attending a party? 

Fighting my annoyance, I nodded. Yes, he surprised me here as well – he baffled me with his outstanding impudence. 

“If you say so, Hamilton.” 

“Good to know that at least now you hear me.”

I clenched my teeth: he simply couldn’t stay silent for a second! Moreover, the closer the moment of truth crawled, the calmer he became – he wasn’t in the least affected by the seriousness of my intentions! Is he that dumb to take everything for a joke, a cheap trick? The only thing he had to do was to issue an apology and admit the inferiority of his judgement – I’d easily relent! This bastard is always turning the world around into a penny-ante play, and unfortunately this duel wasn’t an exception to the rule. On the contrary: it had awakened the honed skills of a third-rate clown. 

“It’s a pity you can’t shut up even on the brink of death.” 

“On the brink of death? For god’s sake, Burr. I bet I’ll outlive you.” 

And again, that brazen grin, this histrionic astonishment of a bad actor – he wouldn’t be accepted even at the wayside travelling show though he was accepted at the Congress abrim with the same prancing fools!.. No, I am not against the idea of reconciliation, I would forget about the affront, but Hamilton somewhat insists on violence. He vexes me even more so, pits himself against me! With every second he’s digging a deeper hole. I feel a growing urge to tell him that a couple of words could alter everything, even my intentions – he doesn’t even care what nonsense to talk, so if he added a few more lines to his stupid monologue of a great length, it wouldn’t play a significant part for him: a sentence more, a sentence less… 

The seconds strained. At the beginning they thought the duel to be a silly caprice of two men with no death happening at the end (at any rate, Hamilton always managed to interject with a long tedious speech full of redundant details, or with a squib). And now they understood the shots were unavoidable. God knows, I didn’t want it to occur – someone had to watch the mouth instead of talking nonsense amplifying it with publications and pamphlets. If Mother Nature created people for a certain purpose, Hamilton had none – he was a startlingly garrulous experiment, ready to take chances. If others consider _that_ to be elocution and talent, then I realize this lack of interest towards my modest person – to any person whatsoever, as this ruffled rooster outshines the most obtuse parrot chattering days on end. Hard to imagine how his family put up with him – I bet his wife and children elude him all the time. 

“Check the gun: they say it misfires. You sure don’t want to be a poor shot to boot?” 

Pendleton frowned – and Hamilton definitely saw it though didn’t pay any heed to this. Winked and smiled; no control over the situation. Is it possible he is not scared at all? Is it possible he… he intends to shoot? Is it possible he… wants to end it up this way? 

“Not worse than you are.” 

“We’ll see!”

Just imagine: that smirk, again! I can’t bear it any longer!

“Ten paces,” came a muffled voice. I cannot even make out to whom it belongs exactly. Dang it, he isn’t kidding. He really is going to kill me. 

“One…” 

Everything is so foggy – it seems the haze covered the eyes as well. I am no longer certain what is going on. 

“Two.” 

The second’s voice didn’t quiver – but dropped down a notch.

“Three.” 

Hamilton barely suppressed the desire to toss another wisecrack. He could hardly keep himself from saying something. 

“Four.” 

Making a step, I stumble over wet grass. 

“Five...” 

I can hear Hamilton’s steps behind my back. Slow, steady, made at the word of command. 

“Six.” 

I falter again. For some obscure reason, I am nervous: maybe I should turn back? 

“Seven.” 

He commences to sing a doltish funny song as if it is the right time to dally. Hamilton manages to ruin the most serious moment – we’re an inch from death! 

“Eight… Nine… Ten. Stop.” 

We turn to each other. He shoots first – what have I done to disgruntle him so much that he wants to destroy me? Is he eager to be the most discussed politician of the time? Wasn’t it enough after that Reynolds’ Pamphlet read by the whole country? 

“You know, Burr,” Hamilton smiled, aiming, “I am not a supporter or adherent to Draconian measures. But drastic times…” 

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead of listening to his monologue, I way too vividly saw his white finger placing on the trigger. I swear, nothing else seemed more natural to me: he knew how to use the gun; you’d think he was born with the weapon in hand; the way he held it, the way he… 

…shot the tree. 

I hear the bullet piercing the air next to my ear; honestly, it was an inch away from me – and it got stuck in the trunk of a spreading willow now shaking its boughs. 

“…call for diplomacy, not violence.” 

I gave a start. He stood opposite me, unusually collected, straightened up – and appeared taller than I remembered; I saw my own reflection in his violet eyes; I was sure there was no shot at all, and if I hadn’t been deafened by it, I wouldn’t have grabbed my own pistol so hastily, I wouldn’t have been so trigger-happy, I wouldn’t have… 

“Burr… damn you. The wound is fatal. You aren’t as bad as I thought.” 

Hamilton’s voice was muffled and cracked – but his lips were still grinning. Out of the corner of the eye I saw him falling – and the seconds running up to him. As for me… I stood there rooted to the spot, staring into space. Duels had seemed different to me… before I shot Alexander Hamilton, the first secretary of Treasure of the United States.


End file.
